Red
by doodlegirll
Summary: Loving him was red.


**Before you read this fanfiction, to better understand it's premise, please read the following**:

_For as far back as I can remember, my life has been dominated, in some way or another, but color. I would rather wear neons over grey or white any day! But it's much more than that: I categorize people by their aura colors. Back in August, I explained this to my psychology teacher, and asked if I was crazy. Turns out, nope! Not crazy! I have what scientists call "synesthesia," and basically, it means that while most of us undergo a process known as apoptosis (brain cell death) when we reach puberty, and "unused" and "unneeded" neurons die off, my brain decided to keep them. Thus, my neural pathways are a labyrinth, and my senses are literally crossed and tied in knots. I see colors for things normal people wouldn't: personalities, emotions, tastes, and sounds. My dominant synesthetic response is known as "emotionally mediated synesthesia," and my emotions are very much colored. _

_Taylor Swift's "Red" played a big part in writing this fanfic, I admit, and the colors of Pocahontas' emotions are not necessarily the colors my emotions take; for example, love is blue for me, not red, and anger is green. And while I admit that Rapunzel is probably much more suited to synesthesia, I decided that the emotions played upon in Pocahontas's stories were much more congruent and made much more sense, as many were touched on in "Pocahontas" that were not in "Tangled." _

_Now that you've heard my story, I hope that you can better understand where this story is coming from. :) _

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own synesthesia. So ha, science!**

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**Red  
A Pocahontas Fanfiction  
**_By doodlegirll_

_..._oOo...

Red

A _Pocahontas _fanfiction

_By doodlegirll_

...oOo...

Every moment of every day was filled with color. Her world had been masterfully painted, and she mused that the Great Spirit must have been quite the artist indeed when He created the earth and creatures that roamed it, of every shape and size.

Her mother had always told her that the wind held every color that had ever been and ever would be, and that if you listened and looked hard enough, you could find a color for every moment, every memory, ever fleeting thought and every dream you could dream.

She had told him that once. That until he could learn to paint with all the colors of the wind, learn to see the colors that shaped the world as she did, then all the earth would ever be, all life would ever be, was soil and rock devoid of life and spirit.

While she had always been content with the palette she had been presented with in the place she called her home, John Smith had somehow managed to add an array of colors she had never known before to her collection: yellows, blues, greens, purples, reds; all of these were colors she had never known to ever exist, and yet, now, she could not envision life without them.

And just as every day passed in vivid color, so did the colors of the emotions that John Smith had brought with him, and left behind in his wake.

...oOo...

Meeting him was as orange as the sunset over the oceans on a summer evening.

Pocahontas could still remember exactly how she had felt the first moment she had laid eyes on the mysterious stranger from across the sea. Everything about him was doused in orange, drawing her interest towards him, captivating her, despite her every instinct telling her that he could very well be dangerous.

He was as orange as the campfires that burned their pits at night, to protect them and provide them with heat and light. That was why she had kept her distance at first; because if you get too close to fire, you could get burned.

...oOo...

Getting to know him was green, like the stems of the white lilies that grew in the meadows of the forests where the trees parted and light was able to permeate the shadows. John Smith was new and exciting, like the first leaves on the trees after a long, cold winter.

John was full of stories and knowledge that she had never even known existed. She could feel the way his spirit extended upwards towards the sun, seeking adventure and meaning as he grew.

Of course, Pocahontas knew that things that are green can turn to brown just as easily when the right time comes, so when he ignorantly called her people "savages," she gained clarity into this phenomenon that she had not been granted before. In order to help him feel the green _she _felt, she knew she had to show him her world, her way of life.

And, in showing him green, she knew she had opened the door for him to understand the other colors of the wind, too.

...oOo...

Loving him was red.

Burning, hot, passionate red, like the berries on the bushes in the spring; like blood.

This color frightened Pocahontas when she first noticed it. While yes, she had experienced red before – loving her people, her father, her mother, her friends – she had never felt it with such intensity before. It engulfed her fully, like a wildfire, spreading through her entire being and overtaking every waking thought.

Whenever he smiled at her, his blue eyes would light up like the first light of the morning, and she felt the red wash over her like the waves of the ocean lapping at the shore. Sparks of it jumped from his skin to hers whenever their hands touched, burying deep into her soul, igniting her to life. It was almost as if John Smith made each and every color more vibrant than it had ever been.

And when he kissed her, the world became red.

...oOo...

As she gazed at his face in the pale moonlight filtering down through the hole at the top of the hut, her world was saturated in purple, as velvety and rich as the clouds after the sunset had passed away.

Gone were the beautiful colors of life, replaced with the combination of the red of his love, and the deep blue of his loss. She tried to swim herself back to the surface of the smothering pain she felt in the middle of her chest, the constriction of her airways as she breathed. But it was no use.

He was going to die, and it was all her fault.

She had experienced purple before. She had found it on the mouths of the dark caves, in the roar of an angry mother bear, on the crack of lightning as it struck a little too close. She had always fled from the color, hiding behind her mother, allowing her to lead her into fear, or banish it completely for her. And soon, she had learned to chase it away with a smile and run headlong into it herself.

But now, here she was, clinging to John Smith as if he were her final salvation, terrified to the core. She was absolutely petrified for what life would become without him there to make the colors bright and new, to make the world red, to make her feel whole.

He whispers in her ear, tries to tell her that it will be alright, that she'll be fine without him. He tries to be there for her, even when she can't be there for herself. He can't hold her, can't kiss her, can't even touch her hand one last time, and it's killing her inside.

He is red, and she is purple.

And as the animal skin covering the doorway falls as she glances back just one last time, her entire world becomes grey.

...oOo…

Saving him was yellow.

Her mother had always said that where hope is present, bravery lives. As a child, she had never understood this simple proverb, but now, running through the forests towards the sunset where he waited for her, she can see it all clearly.

She hopes beyond everything she has ever known, prays with every single breath she takes, that she makes it there on time. She can feel her mother in the leaves that surround her, in the wind that pushes at her back.

Pocahontas is close enough now that she can see her father leading the warriors towards the top of the cliff, and among their painted faces and black hair, she can see his blond hair, and it fuels the yellow she needs to believe that she can do this, that this can possibly be stopped.

Her heart is hard with determination, her eyes set, her feet pounding at the rough rocks of the plateau. And with the yellows arise the other colors that had become dulled: the purple of fear, the orange of wonder, the green of discovery, the red of love.

She is the bridge between life and death, and she takes them both in her hands and hold them there, unwilling to allow the two to merge for even a moment. She throws herself over John Smith, and the world erupts into vibrancy.

...oOo...

Losing him was blue, like the color of his eyes, seared into her memory for all eternity.

Pocahontas watches his ship sink farther and farther into the horizon, bleeding into the great waters of the ocean. From the second he had fallen at her father's feet, she had known that this moment was inevitable. In order for him to live, for them to have any hope of a future, he would have to return to England to receive the medical attention no one here could offer him.

In the weeks after his parting, everything was blue. She got up every morning and tried to go on with her life, as John would have wanted her to do. She chatted with the other village women, hugged her father, and made regular visits to Jamestown to mingle among her new friends there. She confided in Grandmother Willow, played with her animal friends, and laughed with Nakoma. And sometimes, she thought she could hear him calling her name.

But every stab of pain in her heart when she turned to find him not there was blue.

...oOo...

Missing him was grey.

At first, his lose had been a devastating blow, saddening. But now, the colors had faded to grey, just as they had that night outside the hut.

She wasn't angry. There wasn't a thing she could have done to prevent what had happened. John Smith had made his choice – to save her father – just as she had made hers. Anger was not among the emotions that swam dormant in her heart.

Nothing held color anymore. Not the indigo summer storms that rolled across her land, the orange rush of the rapids, even the periwinkle wind in the trees above. And yet, she could still feel her mother's warm, loving presence there.

Pocahontas remembered that after her mother had died, her world had been grey as well, and she supposed that as time went on, her colors would return.

The sharp pricks in her heart whenever John's name was brought up had dulled to a deep, empty longing; she missed him with every fiber of her being. She missed his voice, his loving embrace, his gentle touch. She missed his laugh, his adventure, his red.

Grandmother Willow assured her that his spirit was strong, and that one day, he would return. But as the months and seasons began to blur, Pocahontas began to doubt.

...oOo...

The colors did come back, and with them came pink.

As time went on, her colors returned to her in small snippets, like the tiny sprigs of the plants through the thick winter snow. At first it was the greens, then the oranges, then the blues, then the yellows.

She began laughing again, running through the forests at top speed, walked out onto the partially frozen lake, and watched as the birds started their spring song once more.

The joy was pink like the sky just before the sunrise.

Her people began to take note of the change within her, and they, too, celebrated in her happiness. It was as if their worlds had become just as clouded as hers, and finally, rays of sunshine were beginning to permeate the din. Everyone smiled more, and harmony once again returned to her life.

And yet, red still eluded her.

Summer came, and she could once again feel the grass between her toes as she walked towards the enchanted glade that Grandmother Willow called home. The spirit of the forest was delighted to see her beloved Pocahontas happy again, and Pocahontas made it a point to visit her as often as possible.

And then, one day, the loud boom of the Jamestown canons alerted them both to a change in the air.

Pocahontas climbed to the top of Grandmother Willow's canopy, and her heart did a flip in her chest as she saw the familiar strange clouds rising up above the treetops.

She takes off through the trees, sprinting faster than she's ever run in her life, in the direction of Jamestown. She doesn't stop even to catch her breath until she arrives, and carefully mingles herself into the crowd.

Thomas finds her, and gives her a cheerful grin and friendly wave. She returns it, of course, but her eyes never stop scanning the faces of the men that came down off of the ship at the dock.

And then she sees him. He doesn't see her at first, instead gazing up at the sky above him. A sudden gush of wind sweeps past her towards him, the glistening leaves dancing in its current, and rush through his blond hair, and he closes his eyes, allowing it to envelope him completely.

And when he opens his eyes, he sees her.

She runs at him, dodging men carrying rucksacks and crates and barrels as she does so. The colors burst to life as they have not in the year since he left, and with them, she feels herself become whole once more.

And as she crashes into him, and he grabs her and spins her around, the laugh she missed so much ringing in her ears, the color she had not been sure she would ever be able to find again returns, just as hot and vivid as ever before, as though it had never gone away in the first place.

_Red. _

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**For more information on synesthesia, I highly recommend the book "Wednesday is Indigo Blue" by Cytowic and Eagleman. It's phenomenal. :) **

**I hope you enjoyed!**


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